


The Flower That Is Uninviting

by lady_libertine



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Denailing, Dental Trauma, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Torture, Trauma Bonding, dorian and solas may be getting tortured but they're still gonna argue about it, dorian has flashbacks whenever someone mentions blood magic, hand trauma, it says implied torture because we don't see it in splatterfilm detail, very subtle dorian/solas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 07:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_libertine/pseuds/lady_libertine
Summary: Dorian and Solas have been captured, taken hostage by the Venatori and subject to the trials that come with.Fill for the DA kink meme.





	The Flower That Is Uninviting

**Author's Note:**

> i've done plenty of sex, now let's go for some violence! please mind those tags.
> 
> yes, if a tooth is knocked out, you might be able to just pop it back in the socket if it comes out whole (and if you can't put it back in the socket, it's recommended you at least put it back in your mouth till you can get to a dentist). however, see a dentist afterwards anyway
> 
> a fill for this prompt on the da kink meme: https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/93509.html?thread=366216261#cmt366216261
> 
> "Somehow, Solas and Dorian are captured together, at a point where they do not remotely like each other, even if there is some begrudging respect, by a group who know full well how to keep captive mages from using magic. Ideally Venatori, because there are a lot of nasty options there. They're held captive for some time and, by necessity as much as choice, find themselves doing their best to look out for each other. "

Getting captured was a vague memory. 

Everything blurred together in a haze of pain and magebane, the taste of blood and electricity, the smell of smoke and deathroot and leather. 

Adaar and Blackwall had gotten away, Dorian knew. If they hadn't, they'd be here with them, or with Corypheus, and Maker knew that the Venatori wouldn't stop bragging if that were the case.

So, it was just the two of them, Dorian and Solas, stuck in a tiny, magic-bound cell, the walls carved with magical nullification symbols and with magebane forced down their throats for good measure. They had no idea what time it was, as there was no window in this cell, and only a single, bright witchlight.

Dorian hoped he didn't look as bad as Solas, who had a black eye, a busted lip and numerous small cuts and burns. One of Dorian's own eyes was swelled almost shut, and he tasted blood. His whole face was one massive ache. 

“Well,” he said, his voice a rasping croak. Magebane burned as it went down. “That could have gone better.”

Solas glared at him. “Indeed.” of all the people he had to be captured and thrown into a cell with, it had to be Dorian. 

“What do you suppose we do now?” Dorian asked. “I'm afraid I don't know a thing about getting out of locked rooms with no magic.”

Solas got to his feet, and examined the door. It was covered with magical nullification symbols just like the walls, and the wood was imbued with magebane as well. He looked at the lock, but not only did he not know how to pick it, it was also carved with several enchantments designed to repel the prisoner who wished to escape.

For once, Solas wished that Sera was here. She, at least, was amazing at getting out of locks. She, Cole or Varric would all have had them out of this in a flash. 

“I believe we should learn more about our captors,” Solas said, bringing his focus back to Dorian. 

“Venatori,” Dorian said. “And at least one of them recognized me.”

“Did you recognize them?” perhaps they could use that.

Dorian shook his head. “He had a hood on, and I couldn't place the voice. Chances are he's a right bastard if he's with this lot, though.” 

Solas couldn't disagree with that. “We should also learn what the Venatori wish of us. Likely it is for information—”

“Or experiments,” Dorian grimaced. “We do have laws about experimenting on people in the Imperium, but they're not very good, and this lot won't abide by any of them.” 

“Experiments—magical? Medical?”

“Any. Some of them can be quite useful—always good to test a medicine on a subject before you start giving it to patients, after all.”

Solas merely gave him a flat stare. “And I assume that the majority of these subjects are slaves, are they not?”

Dorian sighed. “Let's...not start that now.”

“We are at the mercy of those citizens of the Imperium that believe your current state of affairs is far too lenient,” Solas' tone was utterly dry, and he folded his arms over his chest in a disapproving manner. “I believe now is an excellent time to speak of it.”

"We can talk about the merits and drawbacks of the Imperium all you want after we escape, alright?” Dorian said. “Now--”

The door swung open, and they both went silent.

The man who stood in the doorway was vaguely familiar to Dorian. He thought perhaps he'd seen him at a party, or political gathering. The man looked only a few years older than Dorian himself, so perhaps they'd been at the Circle together.

The man surveyed the pair of them, a slight disgusted sneer on his lips. He was accompanied by two hulking guards, and the three of them thoroughly blocked the doorway.

“I would have thought Halward Pavus' son wouldn't have been so easy to capture,” the man said, and he had the upper class accent of a magister or magister's son. 

“Yes, well, my apologies for failing to entertain you,” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Believe me, we're just as disappointed as you are.”

“Though perhaps the rattus slowed your progress,” the man looked at Solas, who merely glared at him, his gray eyes like chips of ice. He turned back to Dorian. “Honestly, Pavus, I would have expected you to raise your standards, backwards proclivities or no. Couldn't you find any whore that wasn't a half-educated elf?”  
Solas bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself saying anything unwise. Speaking to torturers only granted them more power; they used anything one gave them, including words. 

Unfortunately, Dorian did not have the same impulse to quiet himself. “Well,” he sighed lightly, as if this were a mildly disappointing ball and not a dungeon of Venatori. “I don't know—you could have raised your standards above dealing with the Venatori, but I'm fairly sure your parents are siblings, if I recall correctly, so you can hardly be blamed--”

The magister waved a hand, and one of the guards slammed Dorian into the wall

Solas made an aborted move towards him, one eye on their jailer, but Dorian merely glowered at the magister.

“Charming,” he rasped. 

“Pavus, you don't have to be here,” the man said, almost disappointed. “You've been lead astray by these southerners, but our lord has promised favor to all true Tevinters. I know your family would want you to return to them.”

“Let me think on it—no,” Dorian said. “I'm not going to follow around a lunatic who wants to take over the world. It's completely ridiculous.” 

Solas had to stifle a smile at that.

“Suit yourself,” the man shrugged. “Either way, we need your rattus here. we don't have enough live subjects, and he'd do wonderfully.” the two guards approached Solas, and grabbed his arms, to drag him away. 

“Solas--!” Dorian exclaimed. 

Solas didn't look at him. When they were just outside the door, Solas turned his head, and sank his teeth into the arm of one of his captors. 

Startled, the guard tried to yank away, and Solas obliged, ripping a substantial piece of flesh off the man's arm. The guard let out a cry of pain and Solas rammed his heel into the other guard's crotch, making him collapse. He grabbed a knife off of this guard and sliced the first one's throat. 

Dorian sprang to his feet, ran to the door, and Solas tossed him the knife, handle-first. Dorian caught it, and they both turned, trying to find the magister. 

An invisible hand caught Solas about the throat and pinned him against the wall. Another one slammed Dorian back into the cell, making him drop his blade. 

The magister had run to the end of the hallway, and now held out his hands, a creatively-applied force spell the culprit. He walked back to where Solas was, and idly he glanced over to Dorian, still forced into the cell by the spell.

“Not just a whore for Pavus after all, are you?” the magister seemed even more disgusted now, looking Solas up and down, eyes lingering on the blood spray around Solas' mouth and across his chest. “It seems you don't recognize your proper place.”

Solas tried to reach for his magic, but it was in vain. The magebane potion was still suppressing it. 

The magister turned back to Dorian, who stared, expression furious, through the open cell door. “We'll give you some time to think over our offer. In the meantime, I think someone should show this elf how to respect his betters.”

The magister slammed the cell door closed and dragged Solas down the hall. Solas stumbled and almost fell, but the spell wouldn't let him. He tried to reach for the magister, but the man noticed and his hands were forced to his sides, unable to move.

“Elves—they think they get a spark of magic and it's enough to make them get above their station,” the magister said, conversationally. “Most of the rattus down here know their place, except for those blasted Dalish, but you don't look like one of them.” 

Solas kept his mouth shut. He could still taste the guard's blood, and desperately wanted for water, but he didn't dare say a word. The invisible hand on his throat tightened for a second, and he gasped for air. 

They came to a stop in a massive room, decorated with instruments that Solas knew were for torture. 

He was slammed against a wooden table, and magic-dampening shackles bound him to it. 

The magister left for a moment, and then returned before Solas could do anything about the shackles, this time with a large number of Venatori behind him.

“This rattus decided he could attack our guards,” the magister said, circling the wooden table. “I think we should show him his place, don't you?” 

Back in the cell, Dorian paced, just on the edge of panic. He'd tried everything he could think of to get through the door, but to no avail. He had no idea how long he'd been here, or when Solas would return. 

If he would return. 

He worried at his fingernails, smoothed his mustache. He glared at the witchlight overhead, its unflickering light distracting and annoying. 

After what must have been hours, the door opened, and Solas was shoved inside, collapsing to the ground. The door slammed closed again before Dorian could do anything about it.

“Solas--” Dorian exclaimed. Solas said nothing, just lay in a crumpled heap. “Oh, Maker, don't be dead,” he murmured, half to himself, and he knelt down beside the man, reaching out a hand to touch him. 

Solas batted his hand away, and Dorian let out a sigh of relief. At least he was alive. Shuddering, Solas managed to push himself to all fours. 

Dorian bit his lip.

Solas was covered in blood, massive bruises formed on his arms, his middle, his legs. He was naked, and with a jolt, Dorian realized there was blood on the inside of his thighs.

Solas spat, and apart from blood, a tiny, pointed tooth came to clatter on the stone floor. He heaved a shuddering breath, his eyes huge. Carefully, he picked the tooth up, inspected it, and put it back in his mouth.

“That,” Dorian said, unable to help himself, “Is disgusting.”

Solas dragged himself over to the wall, leaning against it. He felt around inside his mouth, ignoring Dorian.

“Are you...” Dorian stammered, then he pulled himself together. “Let me see." 

“What?” Solas mumbled, glaring at him. 

“Let me see what I can do,” Dorian insisted. He sat down next to Solas, trying to see what wounds he had under all the blood and bruises. Dorian hesitated, then unfastened his ragged cloak and draped it over Solas' shoulders. Solas clutched the cloak to him, tattered and filthy though it was. 

Dorian realized that even Solas' pendant was gone. “Well—ah—you don't seem to be bleeding to death,” he said, very authoritatively too, he felt.

“What an astute observation.” Solas mumbled, trying not to jostle his mouth more than was necessary.

“Let me see your mouth,” Dorian said. “See if anything else is knocked loose in there.”

Solas shook his head. He opened his mouth, gently pressed a finger on the loose tooth, then mumbled “It came out whole. I replaced it.” he tilted his head so Dorian could see the inside of his mouth, and indeed, the canine that had been knocked loose was put back into place.

Dorian winced. “You'll need to get that looked at when we leave here,” he said. 

Solas didn't reply, just took his hand out of his mouth, curled into himself and leaned against the wall. Dorian cursed himself for not being a healer. He wouldn't even be able to tell what was wrong, much less begin to fix it. 

“Nothing's broken, is it?” Dorian asked urgently. 

Solas held out his hands, and Dorian gasped in shock. Most immediately wrong were that where his nails had been, there were just open and bleeding nailbeds. On top of that, one of his thumbs hung in a very unnatural position.

“Gave you the full treatment, did they?” Dorian said. “Let me see if I can--” he reached out, gingerly took Solas' wrists. “Is this broken or dislocated?” he asked, looking at the thumb. “How do you even tell the difference?”

Solas let out a strangled noise that might have been the ghost of a laugh. 

“Well, it can't hurt that much if you're laughing at me,” Dorian said, his voice very dry. That made Solas let out an actual laugh, then gasp and press his good hand to his mouth in pain. 

“Dislocated,” Solas mumbled. There was a bruise forming on his upper lip. He took his hand back from Dorian, took several deep breaths, squeezed his eyes shut, and jammed his thumb back into place with a sickening _crack_.

He slumped, his face so pale it had a greenish tint, and Dorian was feeling rather ill himself. 

“Ah,” Dorian said at last, trying to regain some of his composure. “Well, there's that taken care of, at least.”

Solas gave him a baleful look, then closed his eyes. He didn't feel like talking, not with his broken tooth and aching body. He hurt all over, inside and out, waves of pain rising and falling like the tide. He felt filthy, blood in his mouth and covering his skin, and if he didn't stink of blood and magebane already he'd stink of Venatori rapists, and he wanted nothing more than to be clean. 

He didn't want Dorian to be here. He didn't want him to see this—naked, and filthy, wounded and violated. He supposed it could have been worse, but it didn't feel like it could be. 

Despite Dorian's cloak, he was freezing. Vaguely, he thought it might be shock, but he hadn't lost that much blood—had he? He shivered, feeling cold in the heart of him. 

Dorian watched Solas carefully. He was still so pale, under the blood and bruises. He looked awful, and it might have been Dorian's imagination, but his eyes looked hollower and his cheekbones seemed to stand out more. 

“You know more about healing than I thought,” Dorian said after a minute.

Solas opened his eyes and shrugged. “Magic cannot be relied on all the time,” he said, and grimaced.

Dorian snorted. “Not to hear you say it.” 

Solas looked around the room, then at Dorian, as if to say 'look at where we are, Pavus.' 

Dorian looked more closely at Solas' hands, which, apart from his mouth, seemed to have borne the brunt of the damage. Dorian very carefully did not think about the blood on the inside of Solas' thighs. He could do even less about that then he could the hands, anyway.

Solas' fingernails had been torn off, every one of them, and Dorian swallowed. He knew exactly how painful that was, mostly from listening to drunken torturers go on about their favored methods at the awful soirees his parents dragged him to. It was meant strictly to be painful, without actively endangering the life of the prisoner. 

Solas, for his part, was not unfamiliar with torture. The blood on his thighs and pain in his insides brought him back horribly to the long days in Andruil's dungeons, being caught in between her squabble with Anaris. 

Pain was not so important. Survival was. 

“Is there--” Dorian looked him over. “There must be something I can help with.”

Solas peered at Dorian. “No,” he said at last. “But thank you for offering.”

“I could--” Dorian paused. “Well, I don't know what, but there must be _something_.”

Solas raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps if you spent more time focusing on living bodies instead of dead ones, you might be able to help more.”

Dorian stared at him, flabbergasted. “Are you really going to criticize my specialization? _Now_?”

“Now does seem like the appropriate time, does it not?”

“I can't tell if you're joking or not, and I'm not sure what's more frightening—that you are and you chose now to grow a sense of humor, or that you aren't and you chose now to start lecturing me on my chosen field of magic.”

Neither was right, actually, but it made Solas feel, oddly, a bit better to argue with Dorian. “I have always had a sense of humor, and necromancy is not the most practical of skills.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't have anything on the ability to pop one's own teeth and dislocated body parts back into place, does it?” Dorian shuddered. “That is still absolutely disgusting.” 

“It is an improvement over an abscess.” Solas grimaced. “In any case, those are useful practical skills that require no magic.” Solas looked at him. “Perhaps you simply have no practical skills.” 

Dorian ran a hand over his face. “You just start losing all semblance of politeness when trapped in a Venatori dungeon, don't you?” 

“I am perfectly polite,” Solas informed him loftily. 

“Now you're being ridiculous,” Dorian said. “You might be quite a number of things, Solas, but polite isn't one of them.” 

Solas sighed. “I have been told that.” he shivered, and Dorian frowned. 

“You aren't going into shock, are you?”

“Do you even know what the signs of shock are?”

“Stop being contrary for ten minutes and just tell me.”

“I do not think so,” Solas said. “One needs to lose far more blood.” he glanced at Dorian and frowned slightly. “Are you cold?” 

Dorian shook his head. “Not particularly.” 

Solas hummed to himself and tugged the cloak closer. His eyes began to drift shut. 

“Oh, use your primary defense mechanism, go to sleep,” Dorian said, but his words had no bite to them. Solas could certainly use the sleep. “I'll let you know when something interesting happens.”

At some point, some food was shoved under the door. They didn't really know what time it was, as there was no window and the door remained closed. The food was just moldy bread and water, but Dorian picked it up anyway, and poked Solas awake.

“Here, you should eat this,” Dorian gave Solas the bread. 

Solas frowned at him, gestured to his bruised mouth. 

“So don't chew it. Look, you're going to blow away in a stiff breeze, you need to eat something.” 

Solas's frown grew more intense.

“Don't look at me like that, it's true.” 

Solas just rolled his eyes, and broke the bread in half, giving one half to Dorian.

“I don't need--”

Solas pushed it into his hands with a put-upon sigh. 

“Alright, alright!” Dorian obliged and began to eat the bread, and Solas did the same. 

They ate quietly for several minutes, before Solas' hands caught Dorian's eyes again. “You're taking this rather in stride, you know,” he said, before he could stop himself. 

Solas snorted. It did no one any good to succumb to panic or despair. 

Dorian tugged at his mustache (hopelessly in disarray), thinking. “Well, perhaps I can talk our way out of this. Perhaps I could feign joining them...?”

Solas shook his head urgently.

“No? Why not?”

Solas scowled at him. “The offer may be a trap,” he mumbled out of the unbruised one side of his mouth. His tooth still felt loose, and he didn't want to dislodge it. “They could ask you to do a large number of things to prove your loyalty.”

“Ah, of course,” Dorian's spirits fell. “Damn, and that wouldn't get you out at all. They might even ask me to kill you, or somesuch.”

Solas made a face.

“Not a prospect I'd relish, I assure you. Fighting our way out is—well, unlikely,”

Solas' expression grew more sour, but Dorian was right. “Adaar escaped.”

“So we should wait for rescue?” 

Solas paused, considering, then shook his head. “We must think of a plan. It could take her a long time to reach us.”

They were left alone for some hours, and they both managed to sleep, fitfully on Dorian's part. They had no idea how much time passed. The witchlight that lit the cell never dimmed. 

Eventually, the door opened again, and the blasted magister stood in the entrance.

“We desire your company,” he said with an oily smile. “Both of you, this time.”

Solas made a low, angry sound in his throat, a growl that made the hair on the back of Dorian's neck stand on end. 

The magister was not phased. Guards came to drag them both down the hall. Dorian wanted to fight, but he didn't want to bring more punishment down on himself or Solas. 

They were brought to the torture chamber, again. Solas shivered as they strapped him to the same table, and Dorian strapped to the one next to him. 

“We felt we should show you what's in store for you, Pavus,” the magister explained. “If you don't accept our offer. My master has great patience, especially for the skilled mages of Tevinter, but it does not last forever.” 

Solas did not cry out.

It was perhaps the most terrible thing, Dorian thought, as he tried to avoid watching what the Venatori did. Solas didn't say anything, let nothing past his lips. There were tears on his cheeks and there was just so much blood but there was no screaming. 

He didn't want to see this. He didn't want to know this about his companion, didn't want to be able to remember under what tortures Solas did not scream. 

It seemed that every time Dorian did look over, about to open his mouth, to beg them to stop, Solas' eyes met his, and the look in those gray eyes made Dorian's resolve strengthen again.

Through it all, the Venatori never touched Dorian, and somehow that made it worse. It made Dorian feel filthy, like his blood protected him while Solas' was spilled on the floor. 

Solas, for his part, would have liked to think of his silence as a show of defiance, and in part it was. However, there was a much larger part of him that simply didn't want to expose his wounded mouth to the open air. 

How quickly one was reduced from choices made from their principles to choices based on the need to escape pain. It was a transition he was very familiar with, but one he hated all the same. 

After hours, and hours, and what felt like eternity, they were finally brought back to their cell.

Solas collapsed on the ground, unable to move. His legs simply wouldn't hold him. He curled into himself, trying not to exacerbate his wounds, but every movement sent shocks of pain through him. 

“You're going to freeze,” Dorian said quietly, and passed him the ragged cloak. 

Solas took the cloak, shivering. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes. 

Dorian realized with a start there was a shadow of stubble on Solas' scalp. “You have—ah--” he ran a hand over his own scalp.

Solas blinked, baffled, and ran a hand over his head, then understanding crossed his face. He scowled. “We have been here too long,” he mumbled through the good side of his mouth. 

“I didn't even realize you could grow hair,” Dorian said, desperately wanting to talk about anything innocuous.

Solas shrugged. “I prefer not to.”

“Why?” 

Solas stared at him. “This is not a useful discussion.” 

“I'm curious. And we're hardly going to get anything done anyway.” Dorian looked significantly at Solas' wounds, then at the door that they had failed to break through.

Solas rolled his eyes. “I prefer not having to clean gore out of my hair.” 

“How often do you get gore on you? You're a mage, you're supposed to stay away from the fight. It isn't like you're swinging a great hammer around.” 

“It is a natural byproduct of fighting.”

“I suppose so. Having no hair does cut down on maintenance. I knew a few people in the Imperium who got sick of lighting their hair on fire every time a spell went astray.”

Solas looked sheepish. “That is another factor, yes.” 

Dorian couldn't help a smile. “I think I understand why you prefer the magic of dreams—fire isn't very cooperative with you, is it?”

“Not always, no.” 

“Speaking of dreams—you haven't managed to contact any spirits in your sleep, have you?”

Solas shook his head. “When magic is limited, so is access to the Fade,” he explained. “I cannot reach it from here.”

“Oh,” Dorian's heart sunk. He looked up at the ceiling. There were no windows in this room, but the bright witchlight made it seem like it was daylight, without giving any warmth. He shivered. He was freezing. He wasn't sure why it was so damnably cold in here-perhaps the loss of his mana itself made him cold. He looked at Solas, who was still shivering as well. Solas looked dreadful, of course, but also cold. He still didn't have any clothes and was just wrapped in that filthy cloak. 

“Come here,” Dorian instructed, before he could stop himself.

“Excuse me?” 

“We are not going to freeze to death in this dungeon. The Inquisitor would kill me. Come here.”

Solas frowned, but shuffled a little closer. Dorian held out an arm, and Solas just looked at it, eyebrows raised. 

“For the love of Andraste, just get over here,” Dorian said. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it would be to die of cold instead of anything else here?”

Solas rolled his eyes. By all rights, Dorian's flippant tone should have been irritating, but Solas instead found it oddly comforting. He supposed this was no more humiliating than anything that had happened before, and Dorian did have a point. 

He came over, and Dorian wrapped an arm around him. 

Solas stank of blood and sweat, and magebane. He smelled terrible and he was horribly thin. Dorian could feel the bones of his ribs, could count every bump in his spine, and it worried him, because they hadn't even been here that long. Solas wasn't a scarecrow like Cole, or made all of whipcord like Sera, so Dorian hadn't realized how thin he was. 

Solas rested his head on Dorian's shoulder. Dorian smelled unwashed and stale, like electricity and magebane, but he was blessedly warm. He closed his eyes, let himself drift. 

The magister returned, after an indeterminate amount of time. 

Dorian still couldn't recognize the man, though he knew him from somewhere. It was positively infuriating. 

The man looked down at Solas, who did not move from his spot against Dorian's side, but his gray eyes had snapped open the minute the man entered the room, and he watched the man's every step. 

“Honestly, Pavus, one would think you had better standards,” the man said, a revolted sneer curling his lips.

“And I told you, one would think you would too, but it looks like we're all disappointed today.” Dorian glared at the man, and subtly moved to shield Solas from him. 

The magister grabbed Dorian's face in one hand, dragged him to his feet. Solas, eyes wide and angry, stayed on the ground, and made that awful growling sound in the back of his throat again. 

“Quiet,” the magister said absently. The magister's nails dug into his skin. Dorian glared at him. “I think you really need to reconsider your position here,” the magister continued. “Maybe we'll finish Halward's work for him, eh?” 

The blood drained from Dorian's face. 

The magister smiled. “We'll see each other again, Pavus.”

Finally, he let go of Dorian and left the room. Dorian sank against the wall, the blood draining from his face.

_“Maybe we'll finish Halward's work for him, eh?”_

The words rang in Dorian's mind, over and over again. The world seemed to disorient around him, and a creeping coldness ran up his spine.

“Dorian,” a long-fingered hand wrapped around Dorian's. “Dorian, breathe.” 

Another hand pressed against his cheek. 

“Dorian, look at me,” 

Solas' voice was so gentle, soft and soothing, so unlike the way he usually spoke to Dorian.

Dorian looked up, into Solas' gray eyes. 

“Excellent. Now _breathe_ , Dorian. Slowly.” 

“I--” Dorian stammered. “I--” 

“Gently. Breathe.” 

Dorian obeyed, taking slow breaths along with Solas. 

Solas smiled and gave an approving nod. He sat back, while Dorian got himself under control again. 

“Sorry about that,” Dorian said. “Threats are hardly the worst thing that can happen here--”

“We need not compare misfortunes in this place,” Solas said. “What did he say that was so troubling?” he wasn't surprised at Dorian's panic. The threat of torture was terrifying, not least when you've watched your companion be the victim of it for days. “Was it simply the threat itself or did he mean something else?”

Dorian bit his lip. He didn't want to talk about this at all, not with anyone, and especially not with Solas. 

“My father...” he said at last, not really knowing how to begin, but knowing that he should. “He...I don't think he would join the Venatori,”

“Your father...Halward?”

Dorian inclined his head.

“Is it possible he was captured as well?” Solas asked, an urgency creeping into his voice. “What is his place in the Magisterium?”

“Oh—likely nothing like that,” Dorian waved a hand. “No, no, he's just—he's done--” Dorian ran a hand over his face, taking deep breaths. “He's the reason I left Tevinter in the first place,” he said. “I prefer the company of men. My father...disapproved.” he glanced up at Solas, waiting for disapproval, but saw only concern on his pale face. “He tried to...change me. With blood magic. Into something he wanted.” 

Solas sucked in a sharp breath, but stayed silent.

“I don't know why—anyone would know about it,” Dorian shook his head. “Perhaps there were spies in the household, I don't know, but...”

“You fear them trying to change you in the same way.”

Dorian squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, a lump in his throat. 

Solas was quiet for a long time. “They could not do such a thing forever,” he said at last. “One's spirit resists all attempts to change it. Perhaps they could will your body to do as they wished, but your mind and your heart would always be your own.” 

Dorian huffed out a bare imitation of a laugh. “What consolation,” he muttered. “To spend all your life screaming inside.” 

Solas reached over, and gingerly wrapped his hand around Dorian's own. Dorian winced in sympathy—Solas' empty nailbeds still oozed blood and pus, and his hands must surely have been in agony, but he didn't let it show.

“If your mind is free, that is the first step,” Solas said, his voice soft, but self-assured. “They could not touch you. Your body is only a shell—what they do to it does not matter. They cannot change _you_.”

Dorian slowly looked into Solas' gray eyes. They were startling in their intensity, all steel and storm, and in his heart, he knew what Solas said was true.

“...thank you,” he said, his voice thick. He squeezed Solas' hand, not hard enough to hurt. He put his other arm around Solas' shoulders, holding him closer, and Solas let him. 

Their captors stopped bringing food, after a period of time that neither of them could figure out how long it had been. There was still water, but there wasn't even a moldy crust of bread. On top of everything else, the water was laced with magebane.

The Venatori had not hurt Dorian apart from denying him food (and sleep, as that blasted witchlight kept him awake). It seemed Dorian's purpose was to be a hostage, so they couldn't damage him too much. Having the Pavus family on the side of the Venatori would be a great advantage, but Halward wouldn't join them if his only son were dead or maimed. 

At least, that's what Dorian assumed. Though they dragged Solas away for torture after torture, they had yet to touch Dorian. 

Solas was...not doing well. He spent most of his time asleep, trying to regain some energy lost by the torture. They started sleeping together, mostly to conserve warmth, but they both gained some comfort by being close together. It was easier for Dorian to sleep with Solas next to him, and vice versa.

Solas spoke less and less as time went on. His mouth healed, slowly, but he steadily grew thinner and more fatigued. His sharp face was growing gaunt, and it worried Dorian to see it. 

“Honestly,” Dorian murmured one day (or night, who was to say), when he'd pulled an exhausted Solas into his lap and covered them both with the filthy cloak. “What did you do, insult the torturer?”

Solas opened his eyes just the slightest bit, and glared up at Dorian.

“You did, didn't you?” Dorian sighed, rubbing a thumb over Solas' shoulder. “I suppose you didn't even have to say anything, did you? You just had to be there, and not be bowing to him.” 

Solas raised his eyebrows. “Yes,” he said. 

“You are infuriating, you know,” Dorian said, his voice still soft.

“I have been told that, yes.” 

“That isn't a criticism,” Dorian told him. “I've been told I'm rather infuriating myself.” he gave Solas a tiny smile. 

Solas returned the smile, ever so slightly. “That certainly is not wrong.”

Their salvation came entirely unexpectedly, some time later. 

They were both half asleep when an explosion rattled the walls of their cell, and they both startled.

“What was that?” Dorian murmured.

Solas shook his head, and pulled Dorian to the far wall. He was still exhausted, but his reflexes were quick enough. 

There was shouting from outside their door. They couldnt' make out what was being said, but it sounded urgent. 

They glanced at each other.

“Do you think Adaar--?” Dorian began, but he was interrupted when something slammed against their cell door with such force that the door was only barely hanging on its hinges. They stared at it, then cautiously, Dorian went to investigate, gesturing for Solas to stay back. 

On the other side of the door a body was collapsed against it, very much dead, and Dorian could hear fighting coming from down the hall. It seemed a spell had thrown this body into the door with enough force to break it.

Dorian retrieved a blade from the body, and gestured Solas to come to his side. Slowly, the two of them walked out of the cell.

Their magic returned to them, just a bit, when they were outside the bindings of the cell and outside the range of the spells that had been on the door. However their only source of water was drugged with magebane, so they were hardly up to their normal strength.

Dorian held the blade out in front of them, very inexpertly, but Solas' hands were still a mess and there was only one blade besides. They slowly eased down the hall, towards the sounds of the fighting. 

Unfortunately, they ran into their chief tormentor coming the other way. 

“Pavus,” the magister snarled. “Why am I not surprised you and your rattus took advantage of the confusion?” 

Dorian held the blade out, and Solas curled his hands into fists, but the magister just scoffed. He flicked his hand, and the blade was torn from Dorian's hand. Another spell caught Solas in the chest, and he realized too late what the spell was one of confusion.

Dorian was slammed against the wall with another flick of the magister's hand, and Solas blinked, the confusion spell making him stumble. 

“Neither of you are going anywhere,” the magister proclaimed. “Not--” 

He was cut off by another explosion, this one so enormous that it made them all stagger. The spell holding Dorian against the wall vanished, and he snatched the blade up from the ground. 

Without stopping to think, he rammed the blade through the man's chest.

The blade went through the man, and out the other side. The man choked, all the air going out of him at once.

Dorian let go of the blade, pushed the man away. The man staggered and fell, and Dorian froze, for a moment unable of what to do next.

“Dorian?” Solas' whisper brought him back to the present.

“I'm here,” Dorian grabbed Solas' hand. “Do you know where we are?”

Solas shook his head, eyes darting around. He was frozen in place, swaying slightly, looking almost drunk. 

“Pull yourself together,” Dorian said. “It'll wear off soon--” or it would, if Solas were healthy, and Dorian cursed to himself. 

“It would, if circumstances were not what they are,” Solas murmured, glancing around at the hall. “Did you ever learn who he was?”

“I don't think that's relevant right now,” Dorian said. He pulled Solas down the hall, helping him up before he fell. “But no, I did not.”

They avoided the sounds of fighting, hurrying along the back hallways, darting through the maze of rooms until, finally, they were out, under the open sky.

They both stopped, Dorian in surprise, Solas because Dorian had stopped.

“We--” Dorian began.

“We are outside,” Solas nodded, businesslike.

“You can tell?”

“I can see the sky,” Solas said. “It simply keeps moving.” the stairs wheeled overhead and then below him, and though he did not know where he was in space, he knew that they were no longer imprisoned.

“Come on, then,” Dorian said, and they got moving. “I plan on getting as far away from this place as I can.”

“Agreed,” Solas grumbled.

The fighting was behind them still, and Dorian had no idea where they were going except in the general direction of away. They could both feel more of their magic restored to them, a tiny piece at a time, but it still really wasn't enough to fight. 

Despite them running away from the battle, that did not stop what happened next.

They ran into Scout Harding, of all people, aiming a bow at them.

“Wait--” Dorian held up his hand, but the other one was around Solas. “Wait, don't--”

Harding didn't lower her bow. 

Solas sucked in a furious breath. “Do _not_ ,” he snarled, eyes literally blazing for a moment as the first inklings of his magic raced through his body. “Aim your weapon at him.” he held out his hand, and moved forward, dragging Dorian with him several steps.

Harding was flung aside, slamming painfully into a tree, her bow thrown several feet in the other direction.

“Solas!” Dorian grabbed Solas' arm. 

Harding gasped, the wind knocked out of her, and she stared up at Dorian. “Solas...?” she breathed. She looked from him to Solas and back. “Ser—Ser Pavus?” she stammered, eyes enormous.

“Scout Harding,” Dorian sighed. “A pleasure to see you again.” 

Harding staggered to his feet. “Oh, Andraste—I didn't mean--” she looked them over. “You two look a mess.”

“Thank you ever so,” Dorian rolled his eyes. Solas' eyes had stopped blazing, and now he was breathing hard, legs trembling. “Can you give me a hand...?” 

“Maker, I'm so sorry,” Harding said again, hauling Solas' arm over her shoulder. “I didn't realize—we've been fighting with the Venatori—” 

“It's alright, Harding,” Dorian assured her. 

“I just—I didn't recognize--” 

“My apologies, Scout Harding,” Solas mumbled out of the unbruised side of his mouth. “I couldn't see who you were clearly.”

“Confusion spell,” Dorian explained.

“No, it's alright,” Harding said. “I would've done the same thing, I think--”

“We need to go,” Dorian said. “Preferably away.”

“Of course,” Harding nodded quickly. “Come on, there's an Inquisiton camp just a little ways away. Her Holiness has been worried sick about you two—we all have.” 

“Was Adaar the one doing the explosions?” Dorian asked.

Harding nodded. “Her and Madame de Fer.” she looked worriedly at Solas. “Master Solas, you got hit with a confusion spell?”

Solas nodded, eyes flicking left to right. “I still cannot orient.”

“But—those should wear off in a few minutes--”

“In someone healthy,” Dorian corrected her.

“...oh,” Harding breathed, looking at Solas' bruised face, his blood-streaked body. “Well, don't you worry, we'll get you back to camp and fixed up just fine.” she tried to give them an encouraging smile, and the three of them made their way back to the camp.

They met Vivienne when they got there. She spotted them coming in and rushed over to looke at them.

“Andraste above, look at the state of you!” Vivienne exclaimed. “Come here,” she instructed. 

“Enchanter, please--” Dorian began, but she paid him no mind. 

“Harding, dear, call the healer,” she said, looking the two of them over with a critical eye. 

Harding nodded and ran off, presumably to find the healer. 

Vivienne looked into Solas' eyes. 

“He got hit with a confusion spell,” Dorian explained. “It hasn't worn off yet--” 

“Mm, I can tell,” Vivienne said, frowning. “My dear, what can you tell me of your surroundings?”

“I see the sky and the ground,” Solas croaked. “They do keep reversing, however.”

“Ah, I see.” Vivienne tapped the side of Solas' skull, sparks coming from the ends of her fingers. Solas let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his head. 

“You are welcome. I have known many an apprentice who was on the wrong end of that particular spell. It was a favorite in the Circle. Can you stand on your own?”

“Yes, now.”

“I wouldn't try it,” Dorian snapped.

Solas just rolled his eyes, but Vivienne only nodded. “The pair of you stay here—I will find Adaar and let her know of your safe return.”

Dorian and Solas were perfectly happy to sit and wait until the healer, a plump, harassed woman named Rose, arrived to see them. 

From then it was a whirlwind of healing spells and potions. Dorian was mostly alright, but malnourished and suffering from magebane toxicity. 

“You're just fortunate not to have overdosed,” Rose informed him. “A few more days and your liver would be failing.”

Solas was in a much worse state. His multiple wounds both inside and out were burgeoning vectors of infection, and he had multiple fractures and several broken ribs. The only good news, as far as he was concerned, was that his magic was not drained, as he had not been able to use it, so it would be able to help with the healing process.

Adaar was overjoyed to see them.

“We thought you two were dead,” she told them, her eyes overbright. “I was about ready to destroy that whole keep!”

“I'm glad you held off while we were still inside,” Dorian said. 

“Neither of us die so easily,” Solas said. 

Adaar wiped her eyes. “And you two look--”

“Oh, Adaar, don't speak of it,” Dorian groaned. “I look worse than I did that week we were stranded in the Emprise.” 

Solas just wrinkled his nose and ran a hand over his head, which was still covered in fine auburn stubble. His hands weren't recovered enough for a fine motor function like shaving, and the healers had recommended against using his magic for anything but healing just yet. 

“Well, I'm just glad you two are alright,” Adaar said. 

“As are we,” Solas said quietly. 

“Once you get better enough to travel, you're going to Skyhold and staying put,” she instructed. “I talked to Rose, she said you need to rest.”

“You'll find no argument from us,” Dorian said. 

Finally, Adaar left, and the two of them were alone.

“You're looking better,” Dorian told Solas. “Than you were, I mean.”

“Indeed,” Solas cautiously felt his mouth again. “I had not expected the healer to know how to resolve...dental difficulty,” 

“Is your tooth still giving you trouble?”

“Not anymore.” 

“Well, that's something, at least.” 

They sat quietly for several minutes, before Solas reached out and took Dorian's hand. 

Dorian leaned against Solas' shoulder. “Well,” he said. “If being trapped in a disgusting Venatori dungeon doesn't bring people together, what does?”

Solas stared at him, then he laughed. “Very true,” he agreed. He threaded his fingers in between Dorian's, and they stayed like that until they both fell asleep.


End file.
